


stop saying you're sorry!

by horatioandophelia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Depression, Fights, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, I made montparnasse be a dick, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, the musain should be a character, tupperware, waffles & mashed potatoes & thai food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 04:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19143550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horatioandophelia/pseuds/horatioandophelia
Summary: Grantaire's abusive mother dies and he spirals. Joly helps, but Enjolras starts treating him differently (i.e. BEING NICE?) and Grantaire loses what little sense of normalcy he has left. Points to Bahorel for being a bro, and Joly for being a voice of reason. Cheers and HAPPY LATE BARRICADE DAY FRIENDS!





	stop saying you're sorry!

_Courfeyrac:_ hey he’s getting bad can you come over

 _You:_ Yeah I’ll head over asap

 _You:_ How bad are we talking

 _Courfeyrac:_ well he hasn’t really acknowledged me in about 15 hours

 _Courfeyrac:_ and he hasn’t gotten off the couch in that time either as far as I know

 _Courfeyrac:_ so

 _You:_ okay omw

 

“Hey, R,” said Joly softly, laying a gentle hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “What’s going on? Courf says you’ve been here for a while.”

Grantaire’s eyes slid open. “I’m fine, Joly.”

“Okay,” said Joly carefully. “It just seems like you’re not. We’re a little worried about you.”

Grantaire’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, I know, alright?” he spat. “I’m a fucking burden. I can’t get it together and I’m worrying everyone. I know.”

Joly swallowed, looking down at the filthy carpet.

“Jesus, Joly, I’m sorry.” Grantaire’s voice changed, spilling over with grief. “Look, man, thank you for coming over. I wish you didn’t have to worry about me. I - I’m just… I’m kind of a wreck, and I’m sorry.”

Joly took a deep breath. “Yeah, R, I know. And I know you’d really rather be alone right now, so here’s the deal: Courf and I are going to make you something to eat, and I think I have something that can tide you over until your prescription comes back in. You work with me on that, and we’ll leave you alone.”

“Sure. Spectacular,” mumbled Grantaire. Joly glanced at Courfeyrac, who shrugged, as if to say, _Maybe it’s not too bad?_

“Hey, R, did anything happen that - ” began Joly, but then Courfeyrac shook his head vehemently.

Grantaire’s whole body tensed, his shoulders curving inward harshly. Joly heard his breath hiss; his eyes snapped up. “Yeah. My mom’s dead.”

Joly’s gaze fell on the scars that covered Grantaire’s arms, nodding numbly. “I’m sorry, R. That’s horrible.”

Grantaire’s eyes flashed; for a moment he looked as cruel and wild as Joly had ever seen him. “Yes, it is,” he replied. “And I’m the selfish bastard who decided not to go see her while she was dying.” He rolled over on the couch, facing the cushions.

Joly bit his lip, turning towards Courfeyrac with forced cheerfulness. “Let’s go make some soup, yeah?”

Courfeyrac nodded dumbly.

 

“R!” cried Jehan happily as Grantaire stepped into the Musain. “We haven’t seen you in a week!” The poet threw their arms around Grantaire. “I know it’s not long, but I missed you! Nobody else wants to talk about Kandinsky,” they pouted accusingly. “Where were you?”

Grantaire gently extricated himself from Jehan’s clutches. “I was just doing my own thing for a couple days, nothing too exciting. Sorry you missed me,” he added tiredly. “Should’ve texted or something.”

Jehan’s eyes took in Grantaire’s face and suddenly their tone changed. “Don’t worry, R, I survived. I’m just glad you’re back, darling.”

Bahorel stood up from a booth, coming over to Grantaire’s table. “Hey, man. Missed you at class on Wednesday.”

Grantaire’s shoulders tensed again. “Sorry, I completely forgot about it. I meant to go, I was planning on it, honestly - ”

“Grantaire! Did you finish that commission from the museum down on Seventh? They called me yesterday, they were wondering if you were still working on it,” interjected Combeferre, approaching the table with an armful of posters.

“Uh, I haven’t gotten around to finishing it quite yet,” said Grantaire quietly, biting his lip. His fingers clutched at the mug of coffee in his hands, turning it around and around on the stained tabletop.

“Grantaire! Good of you to join us,” said Enjolras coldly, walking into the cafe from the cold autumn air, his eyes snapping. “I’d love to hear why you chose not to attend last week’s meeting when I specifically asked for those posters to be done by then. You’re lucky Combeferre had backup designs. Exactly how much did you drink that you couldn’t even show up?”

Grantaire’s hands stopped moving. His shoulders pulled themselves in, curving downward. He studied the tabletop with sudden desperation. “I didn’t - I wasn’t - ”

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed. “I don’t have time for this. I asked for the designs, but I have no idea why I thought you’d deliver. Obviously that was my own mistake.”

Grantaire’s mouth twitched in a hideous facsimile of a smirk, still studying the table. “Obviously.”

Enjolras’ nostrils flared. “Why the hell are you here, then? You don’t do anything, you tear everything I say apart, _and_ you destroy morale. What are you doing here?” he demanded

Suddenly, all the tension left Grantaire’s body, and he sagged in his seat, his hands falling open around his coffee cup. His eyes slowly slid up to Enjolras’ face. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice soft. Enjolras blinked.

“I don’t know,” he repeated. His throat contracted around the words. “I think I’ll go.”

A soft chorus of protests surrounded him as he stood, pulling his sweatshirt over his head mindlessly. “R, please don’t leave,” whispered Jehan. “I’m sure he didn’t mean…”

“Hey, it’s okay, J. It’s really not a big deal,” murmured Grantaire reassuringly, swallowing hard.

Enjolras studied him, a look on his face that Grantaire couldn’t quite decipher. Grantaire saluted him as he left, making sure to close the door softly as he exited so as not to interrupt as Enjolras picked up the meeting where he left off.

 

Grantaire opened the door, leaning heavily against the frame, his face haggard. “What?”

“Courfeyrac told me,” said Bahorel. Grantaire’s jaw clenched. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, if we talk about I’ll break something, so that’s probably a good plan.”

“I brought booze,” offered Bahorel.

“The best. You’re the absolute best, man.”

 

“You know,” Grantaire said, taking a large swig from the bottle he was sharing with Bahorel. “Suffering isn’t beautiful.”

“What?” slurred Bahorel. “What d’you mean?”

“It isn’t,” said Grantaire, his voice aching with emptiness. “It isn’t poetic or lyrical. You read about it, you see it in paintings, and you think, _wow, that's so beautiful and expressive._ But it's not. It’s just - agony.”

Bahorel studied him. “Did I tell you that Enjolras asked me to tell you he was sorry? Said he was sorry that he said something bad enough for you to leave… Don’t think he thought you’d actually go, y’know? Anyway, he wanted to apologize, but he didn’t have your number.”

Grantaire shook his head, taking another generous swig. “No, you didn't tell me. But I can’t think about that right now. Apollo, sorry? How the fuck am I supposed to process that?”

“I dunno, man, but he wanted me to tell you.”

Grantaire closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall behind him. "It would be a lot easier if he wasn't," he said tiredly.

With an effort, Bahorel lifted his arm and draped it over Grantaire's shoulders. "I'm sorry, man," he said. "I really am."

"Thanks. And thanks for being here and just… just being here."

"You got me, babe."

Grantaire smiled slightly, eyes closed. Two tears rolled slowly down his face, as if to mock his attempt at cheerfulness.

 

Joly heaved himself out of bed at the sound of imperious knocking, casting a longing look at the blankets before stumping to his front door and opening it, squinting blearily at a blondish-looking figure.

“Enjolras?”

“Yes, it’s me. Here are the t-shirt orders from last week. I wanted to drop them off before Wednesday.”

Joly frowned. “Enjolras, it _is_ Wednesday. It’s five a.m., right now. Wednesday morning.”

Enjolras looked slightly stunned, then looked down at his watch. “Whoa. Um, yeah. Sorry about waking you up, I guess?”

Joly sighed. “It’s fine. I have class at seven anyway. Do you want to come in? I’ll make coffee.”

Enjolras hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder at the sun rising. “I don’t want to impose…”

Joly rolled his eyes. “Look, Enj, I’m making coffee whether you come in or not, so unless you want me to drink the whole pot myself, you should come in.”

Enjolras grinned slightly, following Joly into the kitchen. “The whole pot? Aren’t you worried about having a heart attack? Or a stroke? Or amnesia or something?”

“People don’t get amnesia from coffee, doofus. And yes, coffee is somewhat dangerous, but Bossuet says that I should try to be a bit more open to things that I call ‘dangerous’ and other people call ‘normal,’ so here we are.”

Enjolras nodded absently, watching Joly pour coffee grounds into the pot. As Joly pressed the ‘ON’ button, he cleared his throat, studying the floor. “Why is Grantaire upset?”

Joly looked up at him from the coffeepot. “What? Where did that come from?”

Enjolras shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

“It’s been two weeks, Enj,” said Joly kindly. “You could just ask him yourself.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Enjolras sarcastically. “I’m an utter dick to him, I don’t see him for two weeks, and then out of the blue I text him - for the first time - and say, _oh hey, how’s it going?_ Sounds like a great idea.”

Joly laughed softly. “Yeah, makes sense. But why do you want to know? I’d have thought the meetings would be easier without him there. Here,” he said, handing Enjolras an empty mug and nodding towards the sugar bowl.

“I don’t know,” said Enjolras. “It _is_ easier without him. But it also sucks because… because it’s easier. I _miss_ him, for God’s sake. Don’t look at me like that,” he added threateningly as Joly smirked at him over the carton of creamer.

“Enjolras, do you have a _crush?”_

 _“No!_ Of course not. Don’t be an imbecile, Joly.”

“Right.” Joly smiled.

Enjolras looked over at Joly, sipping his coffee with fat-free creamer and a tiny teaspoon of sugar. “What’s wrong, though? With Grantaire.”

Joly suddenly grew somber, looking down at the floor. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I’ll tell you, but you can’t freak out and try to plan a rally for orphans or something.”

Enjolras frowned. “Orphans? But why would I -- wait -- ”

“Yeah,” Joly sighed heavily. “His mom died. We don’t really know how it happened, but she did, and he wasn’t there. Apparently she’s been sick for a while.”

“Oh my God.”

Joly nodded. “I mean, she was abusive and everything, but she was the only family he had. From what he said, he chose not to be there, and now he’s blaming himself for that on top of everything else that abuse survivors go through…”

“But that wasn’t his fault! Survivors of parental abuse don’t owe their parents anything! It’s not like she died because he wasn’t there, he shouldn’t feel like _any_ of this is -- ”

“And there’s the rally for orphans,” interrupted Joly tiredly. “Look, Enj, I don’t really know what Grantaire needs right now, none of us do, but he sure as hell doesn’t need a textbook answer like that.”

Enjolras’s nostrils flared; for a moment he looked as if he might explode. “He shouldn’t be punishing himself for this!” he hissed.

“I know,” said Joly. “But he is. I think the best thing you can do is try to understand.”

 

Things were not… great. As he stared down at the charcoal sketch, Grantaire recoiled slightly at the agony in the half-formed faces. Throwing down his pencil, he chugged another mouthful of the whiskey in the chipped coffee mug beside him, wincing at the burn as it went down. He made a mental note to buy more the next time he went to the grocery store - or, scratch that, ask Bahorel to buy him some and bring it over and then pay him back…

There was a sudden knock at the door.

Grantaire’s head snapped up, eyes wide. From his experience at Combeferre’s house, that knock meant only one person. He swallowed, pushing his unwashed hair away from his face and praying that the charcoal on his fingers hadn’t somehow migrated onto his face. Walking slowly to the door, he took in the pitiful state of his apartment and hoped for quick, outdoor death.

“Joly told me,” Enjolras blurted out as soon as Grantaire opened the door. He was carrying three bulging bags and looked almost ready to burst with nervous energy. Grantaire felt his mouth turn down at the corners and his grip on the door tightened so much that his knuckles turned white.

“Oh, yeah?” he snarled. “Have you come with pamphlets for abuse victims? Are you planning a rally next week?”

Enjolras looked ashamed, glancing down. “Joly said the same thing. About rallies. I guess I’m pretty predictable,” he said, trying to smile.

Grantaire looked at him, empty-eyed. “What do you want, Apollo?”

Enjolras cleared his throat. “Uh, yes. I asked Jeh-- I mean, I, uh, thought about what might help you feel a little better, so I made you some Thai food?” he said tentatively, extending one of the bags out towards Grantaire. “And mashed potatoes and waffles,” he added, handing him another bag. “And I brought some old French films that you said you liked,” he finished, gesturing lamely with the last bag.

Grantaire, loaded down with food, found himself simply staring at Enjolras’s reddening face. “What?”

“Yeah, so, I’ll just -- I’ll just go now and, and maybe I’ll see you at this week’s meeting?” Enjolras said, setting the bag of films down at Grantaire’s feet and stepping back.

Grantaire shook his head slightly, dazed. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, sounds good. Gotta return your tupperware,” he said, smiling slightly.

Enjolras beamed at him, his face suddenly full of joy. “Okay, great. Yeah.”

 

It had been two weeks. Two weeks since Enjolras had brought food and films to his house, and he was even more in the dark than before.

Enjolras had been being _nice_ to him. They’d had no fights, no disagreements, no tiffs, even. Grantaire was mystified. He’d said some pretty pushy shit, trying to get a reaction, and -- nothing.

When Grantaire had handed back the tupperware, saying _thanks, man, it was really good,_ Enjolras had looked _weird._ If it had been anybody else, Grantaire would have said _nervous,_ but this was Enjolras. But then every time he had glanced over in Grantaire’s direction, he had _smiled_ at him. What the fuck?

When Grantaire had tried to return the films as well, Enjolras had actually _blushed,_ saying that they weren’t really his kind of movie, and maybe Grantaire could just keep them. When Grantaire tried to insist, he had simply shaken his head, stuttering that they were much more Grantaire’s type of thing.

In short, Grantaire was lost. So he stirred the pot.

This week, he’d been more vocal than ever, shoving aside his grief for the hour of the meeting, throwing barbs and jokes and comments around like hummingbirds, darting in and out of Enjolras’s arguments. He had watched Enjolras’s nostrils flare, had seen his valiant efforts to stop himself from fighting back - _why? -_ and heard his calm responses.

“And I really think that, with the level of responsiveness we’ve seen in the past, there’s nothing stopping us from bringing this to the attention of the school board.”

Grantaire snorted. “Really? You think so?”

Enjolras turned furious eyes on him, his jaw clenching, silent and livid. Grantaire watched the struggle in his face and looked straight up at him from his seat, focusing his whole being on Apollo’s face. He watched the rage turn into bafflement, and then into disbelief.

Enjolras blinked, an almost-question forming on his lips. Grantaire gave him a shadow of a nod, his heart pounding.

Enjolras exploded in a burst of flame, raining down argument after argument, throwing ideas, outlining reasoning, and hurling evidence at Grantaire’s smiling face. He radiated confidence and righteous rage, but Grantaire was struck by how joyfully he spoke, as if the arguments he made were something else entirely - as if every scorching criticism was a love song, sung out to someone unseen.

At last, Enjolras seemed to lose steam, staring down at Grantaire, panting slightly, deathless and righteous and beautiful. Grantaire was struck, as if for the first time, with how terribly, painfully in love he was with this avenging angel, just out of reach, infinitely too good for the ugliness in his own soul. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, that sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me.”

And Enjolras, that fucker, smiled at him as if Grantaire had just handed him everything he ever wanted.

 

“What the fuck just happened, Jehan?” whispered Grantaire.

Jehan turned their smiling eyes at Grantaire, whispering back, “Are you complaining?”

“No, but it was _weird._ Was that not weird? Am I making this up?”

Jehan giggled under their breath. “It’s okay, R, I think you’ll figure it out soon.”

“And what does that mean?” whispered back Grantaire.

“Alright, that’s everything, everybody! Thanks for coming!” called Combeferre. “Remember, you can sign up for text reminders!”

“Grantaire, could I speak with you for a moment?” said Enjolras softly. Grantaire jumped, his heart racing.

“Don’t _do_ that, Apollo, Jesus Christ -- ”

Enjolras bit his lip. “Sorry.”

“And don’t apologize, either! Seriously, what the fuck is up with that -- ”

“Look, Grantaire, I’m just trying to be nice -- ”

“Yeah, well, you should stop!” said Grantaire vehemently. “I don’t want you to be nice to me! For God’s sake, Enjolras, I’m losing my mind!”

Enjolras looked at him. “I thought,” he started. “I thought it would be better for you. Since your mom’s - since she’s gone. I thought it would help.”

Out of nowhere, Grantaire was livid. He felt his skin crawl and he snarled at Enjolras. “You thought it’d help, huh? You wanted to treat me like I needed help? Thought I ought to be treated like something special? Something precious?”

 _“Yes!”_ burst out Enjolras. “Because you _are!”_

There was a sudden hush as everyone in the room turned to look at them. Grantaire stared at Enjolras. “What -- ?”

“Come on,” muttered Enjolras, taking Grantaire’s arm and pulling him towards the side room of the cafe.

“Okay,” said Grantaire dumbly, stepping into the cooler, darker room.

“Look,” said Enjolras softly, pulling the door closed behind them. “I’m sorry -- ”

“Stop _saying_ that!” cried Grantaire. “God!”

“Let me _finish,_ Grantaire. I’m sorry that I didn’t apologize after that meeting a few weeks ago, when I was such an asshole, and then showed up at your house uninvited. I’m sorry for treating you differently these past couple of weeks. And I’m sorry I didn’t just _talk_ to you about how you wanted to be treated since your mom passed away. That wasn’t fair of me.”

Grantaire blinked at him. “Oh,” he said softly.

Enjolras smiled slightly. “Yeah.”

Grantaire shook his head. “I didn’t know -- never mind.” He glanced up at Enjolras’s face, grinning slightly.

“I suppose I’ve got to forgive you,” he said dramatically. “Close call, though.”

“I’m sure,” said Enjolras seriously, his mouth twitching. Grantaire’s heart was doing things that Joly would panic over.

“Hey, uh, Enjolras, I was kind of wondering why -- ”

“Do you maybe want to get coffee sometime this week?”

Grantaire stared at him. _“What?”_

Enjolras’s whole face was beet red. “Well, um, I just kind of wanted to, you know, go on a date? With you. If you want.”

“With _me?”_ This wasn’t happening.

“Yes.”

Grantaire laughed, hollow and empty. “Apollo, have you lost your mind?”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asked, affronted.

“Enjolras, have you seen me? I’m a fucking mess. I’m the worst. My mom died - and I _hated_ her - and I still feel horrible about it. I’m a disaster, ask anyone. Just -- long and short of it is, I’m the least attractive person I’ve ever met, and believe me, once you’ve met Montparnasse, you get perspective. You don’t want to date me.”

“Yes, I do,” said Enjolras, his eyes snapping. “I don’t give a damn what you say.”

“Is this the part where you declare your undying love for me and sweep me off my feet?”

“Fuck you,” said Enjolras, and kissed him.

Grantaire gasped into Enjolras’s mouth, melting against him. HIs eyes closed, his hands coming up to cup Enjolras’s face. Somehow Enjolras’s arms were around him, pulling their bodies together, their hips pressed against one another. Enjolras attacked his mouth, merciless and blinding, and Grantaire moaned, completely overwhelmed, clinging on for dear life. Dimly, he realized that he was pulling on Enjolras’s hair, and he tried to pull his hands away, but Enjolras growled and pulled him closer, so he thought he might as well.

Enjolras pulled away after several moments and Grantaire’s heart stuttered in panic, but Enjolras began to press tiny kisses along Grantaire’s throat, sweet and soft.

“Apollo,” panted Grantaire. “Apollo, what -- ”

“You _want_ me to,” muttered Enjolras, feverishly dropping kisses on Grantaire’s jaw.

“What?” He was going to _die,_ right here, in Enjolras’s arms. Or maybe he had already died, and by some fluke had made it into whatever Heaven there was for people like him.

“You want me to argue with you,” whispered Enjolras, like it was a terrible secret. “You enjoy it, too. I mean, I liked you, _so much_ , but I never thought… I never thought I’d get to have both.”

“Both?” murmured Grantaire into Enjolras’s hair, not really following.

“Yes, I get to have the fighting, but I also get to have you.”

Grantaire gasped, his eyes filling with tears and sudden comprehension.

Enjolras stiffened suddenly, pulling back. “I mean, if you want. Oh my God, I just kissed you, I didn’t even ask, I am so sorry -- ”

“Yes, yes, I want that. God, Enj, I want that.” He must be dead. There was no other explanation. The gods were not this kind.

Enjolras looked at him, a tentative smile crossing his face. “You do?”

Grantaire scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, smiling so widely it hurt, laughing and crying. _“Yes,_ Enjolras. I - always.”

Enjolras threw his arms around him, burying his face in Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire pulled him closer, closing his eyes and breathing into Enjolras’s shirt, trembling slightly.

“R?” said Enjolras.

“Yeah,” croaked Grantaire. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Yeah, you are,” said Enjolras. “I’m going to be here, for whatever happens. Your mom, anything, everything. I don’t care. I’m going to be here.”

Grantaire felt his tears soaking Enjolras’s shirt. “Thank you,” he said. “I promise to keep fighting with you,” he added, smiling into Enjolras’s shoulder.

“Well, you’d better,” said Enjolras, laughing. “That’s rule number one.”

“Rules? Not sure how I feel about that, Apollo.”

“Oh, are we going to fight about that, too?”

Grantaire pulled him closer, looking up at Enjolras. “If you want,” he said softly. “Not like I’ve got a problem with it.”

Enjolras looked at him and leaned down, kissing him gently.

 


End file.
